Of all the words I know, “Pinocchio” is the only obscenity. To me the syllables of this word are like the venom on the fangs of a diamondback rattler, or the barbed hair on a tarantula’s legs that detach and enter the orifices of the enemy, causing a horrible burning therein. Both of these predators I observed this morning in their respective natural habitats on what appeared to be an extremely well-funded documentary. Their onscreen appearance was the immediate cause of my thinking of Pinocchio, which word, prior to this program’s airing, was as far from my thoughts as breakfast.

What about what happened yesterday?

As I have said, I am nothing if not indifferent, so if I then reveal that there is something by which I am disgusted and outraged, my opinion must carry more weight than those of blushers and flinchers, not that I expect to be judged—

You were on the bench—

I am pure math: exempt!

Arnold was working on you—

You forget, I don’t forget.

Do you remember what he said?

You’re a bit of slow!

What do you think of what he said?

What’s it to you anyway?  He’s been calling me that forever. Exhibit A:  Pinocchio, if he ever existed at all, certainly does not live here. I’ve never even played him. Arnold’s addressing me as such belies a screwy nostalgia. Disney’s gone to his head, as it has to everyone’s.

Let’s just say, if you were human—

Oh please, I hate that game.

For argument’s sake.

I would have socked him one. Besides being utterly offensive, the notion is ridiculous in every way. I’m not anywhere near as thin as that sticky brute, my nose is an innie that has never popped, I have neither pretensions nor a stomach to be sick to, though sometimes the latter I’d like, like right now just thinking about it, plus I never open my mouth by myself, so how could I lie? I hate to think that in your mind, Arnold’s I mean, this nickname is some sort of ultimate compliment. It’s true I’m our leading he-puppet, being the simplest in the shop, the most changeable, but one would hope for a bit more compassion from one’s keeper, or at least a little tact. The marionette which bore that name was never a puppet worth the word to begin with, he was born speaking, nastily at that, he was hungry before nightfall and never knew immobility. He put his maker in jail and murdered his first friend. Some puppet!